I look at them in their lives and their worlds, they do their things and they live their days.
I can do that. Look – watch me – I’m doing my things and living my days.
And then I turn sideways, and vanish.
Where did I go? All the fear folded in on me.
It all looked too big, I left. It’s all too familiar, so I run. .I hide from being me.
How am I not like the other people? Reasons crumple under their own weight and all the ideas dissolve into dust
Who thought the simple act of being me would become such a challenge, such a confusion, so fueled by doubt.
When this happens a lot I wonder if I should stop pretending.
Pretending the other people are real, or pretending I am.
I wonder at these words and fragments, at what will come next.
Most people will understand,
But most people aren’t real. Most people don’t exist.
Mixy's Art Blog 
Your use of purple chisel texta is very definite. It places you very clearly on this map of your day. I suspect a lot of us introspective folks tread that line between successful bluff and being ‘found out’. Some days feel wobblier than others. In the end it is ok!
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Such truth. I often reassure myself that none of this is real anyway. We will wake up and it will be just fuzzy scraps.
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Eph, you are building wonderful things with fuzzy scraps. Some of the images on this post are like shadows of wrought iron on an already patterned/shadowed wall. Art is illusion. I think the meaning comes without search, from doing something that matters, that we love doing and adds +++s to the world. Cheers to you!
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you make my heart smile! thanks so, my friend! It’s all mirrors, isn’t it!
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